Healing with Pawpaw

Wow. It's been a really long time since I updated this blog. Sorry!

The reason is above.

I've recently been able to type using both hands again. Added over 10,000 words to my latest manuscript over the past five days, plus catching up on correspondence that went quiet whilst I was recovering. Loads of other things have been happening, but I'll try and stick to the most relevant.

So, the arm is doing very well now.

It wasn't doing well for a long time. A couple of weeks ago it wouldn't stop leaking bright yellow gunk. Two months and none of the antibiotic creams were closing the wound. In desperation, I poured raw honey over it. It stung like a bee's bum, but within two hours the entire wound had closed. 

I was seriously amazed. 

I put more on overnight, wrapping it in a bandage, but things were back to gunky in the morning. When I went to the clinic to see my miracle man, Moses, he explained that they use honey in traditional medicine too, but that the best thing was only to apply a small amount and to leave it uncovered. Following his advice, all of the gunk started to scab up really well.

 

The problem with the scabs is that they were really thick and dry. They started pulling the skin in tightly. At first, I thought this was a good sign - certainly better than yellow goo - but then I realised it would probably lead to scarring. 

Everything I read suggested wet dressings result in scar-free healing. The problem was that any of the medical creams I applied just turned it gunky again, and even the gentlest moisturisers were too harsh and started burning. 

Again, in desperation (necessity is the mother of invention), I went into the garden and clubbed a papaya (pawpaw) from one of my trees. In my research, I'd stumbled across some articles that suggested papaya was extremely good for wound healing. Most articles suggested that green (unripe) papaya milk was best, but I had two problems with that. To get the milk, you have to score the skin of the fruit, or the tree, and collect the sap. Firstly, my trees are really tall, I couldn't get up there, and secondly, it's the middle of the dry season. We haven't seen rain in two months, and it felt a little unkind to drain water from a tree that needed it more than I did.

I tried making a pulp from one green fruit and used it to wash the wound, but that didn't work so well.

As it turns out, ripe papaya is just as good, and much easier to work with.

Take a fork and mush a bit of the fruit up. You only need a small amount, and I keep it in the fridge as it's nice when it's cool. Simply plaster it over either the open wound or the scabs. It will sting a little, but nowhere near as badly as raw honey.

Then leave it to dry. This takes about twenty minutes in a warm climate, maybe forty-five in cooler climates.  It's really weird stuff. The fruit exposed to air will dry really quickly, whilst the fruit touching your skin will remain moist for a long time. As the outside dries, it'll glue itself to you. It makes a superb natural wet dressing, you can move about and it won't fall off.

Be warned - this is a pain in the bum on an open or scabby wound, but it is absolutely worth the discomfort. Firstly, it eats away at the gunk - which is good. Secondly, it sticks to you when you remove the dressing, taking all the crap with it. This is painful and unpleasant, but ultimately also very good, because it helps to thoroughly clean the wound.

I changed my dressing three times a day: morning, noon, night. Nighttime was uncomfortable. The fruit can completely dry out and this becomes painful because it pulls on the skin. On an open wound, this can really ache. It woke me up a couple of times. You will need to soak it off in the morning with tepid water.

After three days (nine applications), the scabs had almost completely gone and I didn't feel the papaya was helping much anymore. I gave the wound a wipe, but couldn't get all of the papaya off. Note - if you have this problem (it can set pretty solid), don't damage yourself trying to get it all off. It won't go rotten or cause trouble. Your body, or the aloe gel, just seems to deal with it.

I switched from using papaya to a tube of 100% aloe vera gel which a friend had sent me. Again, I refrigerated this. I applied at least three times a day, generously. On the third day, I got out of the shower to find that the edges of the scabbed area were peeling. It looked as though the aloe and the papaya residue had merged to create a thick film. I picked at it to see what would happen and the entire scabbed area lifted off in one sheet to reveal perfectly smooth skin underneath. This photo shows my skin after another couple of days of aloe. No scarring at all.

I'm still moisturising with aloe and also unrefined shea butter. Shea is brilliant for skin once it gets a bit further down the line. If you put it near an open wound it'll sting.

So, going by my recent experience, I suggest a three-fold process for troublesome burn or wound recovery:

1. Honey for emergency use if you have an open, leaky wound that refuses to close or scab. Apply minimally, leave uncovered, and expect it to hurt. Personally, I think it killed bacteria faster than the antibiotic cream, with none of the side effects.
2. Once the wound stops weeping and either goes closed but soft, or scabbed, switch to ripe papaya dressings. This will clean the scab out and keep the wound moist to help prevent scarring. This will also encourage skin growth and help to fight infection and inflammation.
3. Once the wound is close to healed, or you no longer feel the papaya is offering much benefit, clean the area, let it dry, then apply aloe vera.

I'd love to know how this goes for others. I was truly amazed at the results. Like I say, nothing had managed to close the wound for two months. Honey, papaya and aloe did it in about ten days.

One up-side to this is that I've made a new friend. A guy also called Moses, like Nurse Moses, but who runs an amazing massage centre near my old place in Kagugu. I knew him before, but only really got to know him because of this injury. I'm helping to redo his website at the moment, in return for help with my hand. He trained for two years in Japan and is just amazing. Even though my skin isn't strong enough to withstand physio yet, he showed me ways to massage the tendons in my arm and shoulder to help relax the muscles and get things moving better. His centre is truly beautiful and I will post more about it later.

Meanwhile, can anyone tell me what these ants are doing? 

I found them on the side of my couch. At fist I thought it was mold, but when I got closer, I realised it was a cluster of tiny, tiny ants. They were just standing around, not moving. I blew on them and they still didn't move. I've never seen ants behave like this before.

I went back later and they'd all disappeared, leaving these strange scales behind. I have no idea what they are?

Anyway, the up-shot of my hand starting to work again is that, not only can I type, but I can just about - almost - chop vegetables. I'm able to cook basic food. Huzah! 

Made this nommy sausage stew. Real comfort food.

The only thing I can't do yet is play the tin whistle. I've given a couple to Sande (my name for Moses II, so this doesn't get confusing). His brother Jeff plays the traditional flute. When I'm better, I hope he'll make me one and teach me to use it. Sadly, that may be a while. I'm healing well except for my ring finger, which is not as sensitive as the others and is developing a callous which is a strange shape. It means that when I try to cover the holes of the whistle, all the air escapes, and I can't tell how hard I'm pressing. I'm due to see the dermatologist on Monday, so hopefully there's something can be done about it.

Papaya ikivuguto (natural yogurt) with tree tomato and passion fruit for pudding.

My wonderful new housekeeper, Shania, has been a real blessing. She makes my bed, washes the dishes and tidies the house for me. She has a little boy, Bon, who came to visit, luckily on the same day my friend delivered my writing desk, along with her little girl, so they watched movies together.

 

My gardener came to tidy the hedges the other week. He chopped down the tree with my washing line attached, so I now have a really nice new line. I'll take a picture soon. My landlord put it up with a metal pole, so hopefully he won't be able to cut it down again.

What else has been happening?

Oh, the African Union summit was held here. Lots of beautiful flags flying all around the capital. 

And I was bumped by a car yesterday. Ironically, as I was leaving the hospital! A few years back Kigali introduced traffic lights and pedestrian crossings. Whereas drivers seem to have gotten the hang of the lights, pedestrian right of way is a whole other issue. It's like playing chicken with the traffic every time you want to cross. I was halfway across the road yesterday when someone just drove his car into me!

In one way it was okay, because he was going very slowly. In another, it was dreadful, because that meant his foot was actually over the brake, he just didn't use it!

I stood in front of his bonnet and made a very theatrical display of pointing to the stripes on the road. I think I've embarrassed him into obeying the highway code.

Still, they're talking about pedestrianising the whole of the city centre. I think that's a wonderful idea.

Deliverance

 

Bug pic! I'll update if I get a response from /r/whatsthisbug. 

Well, interesting week. Little stressful. Couple of those days where I should probably just have pulled the sheets up higher and stayed there.

First disappointment - the dressing didn't come off. My wrist was still a bit weepy, so another round of bandages. Moses assures me they will come off tomorrow instead. I believe him, because what choice do I have? But it's also dawned on me that I'll probably still wrap up in public, so as not to put people off their dinner. I thought my hand looked fairly normal, but a few people have wrinkled their noses, and I've had one audible 'eeewww'.  I've ordered long gloves from the UK. 

I'm still under instruction not to type or touch anything. Apparently I only have one layer of skin, and I need to grow two more before I can start that sort of shenanigans. Otherwise, I have been told, there is a chance that 'blood will come out of my fingers.' I don’t think I like the sound of that too much.

Had a sad moment when I picked up my whistle to see if I could play a simple tune, and realised there wasn't a hope in hell. I have no idea how long this is going to take, but things are slowly improving. I can put my bra on like an adult again.

Second disappointment: my gardener 'trimmed' (err, demolished) the tree with my washing line attached. But it's okay, my landlord used a pole to put it back up...

Need to grow two layers of skin and an extra three foot of armage.

And, final disappointment - well, you can probably guess.

'Back at the weekend,' translated to 'back on Monday, five hours before my flight,' for chap in a cassock. Having no prior warning, I'd booked a Nakumatt delivery and a meeting with a UK client - neither of which I would have done had I known. Ended up not seeing him. Not because the delivery was late, or the meeting overran, but because of this yucky feeling I had. I felt disproportionately pissed off. I really did like this guy. I was looking forward to seeing him, and I don't mind if business overruns and you're late - but I do mind a total dearth of communication followed by an expectation that I can drop whatever I'm doing last minute because you want to see me.

It's really nobody's fault.

Monochronic people cannot date polychronic people.

Just a fact of life.

It irked me because the last time I felt so bent out of shape by a bloke was D, for exactly the same reason. It was this flashback that froze my fuzzy warm feelings. That titanic wave of former frustration and irritation. 

I'm not sure I can ever look on this guy as 'just' a friend. I like him too much. But I dislike this feeling more than I like him, so time to put it in a box under the table. I'll work with him in a professional capacity, but I won't be out socialising. I'm done with that train of thought entirely.

But, the week hasn't been all doom and gloom. The delivery was fun. I now have somewhere to store my dishes, herbs and spices.

 One-handed flatpack assemblage? Leave this to me.

Earlier in the week, my friend Maia (different to Maja) dropped off a small desk I intend using for writing. I went and bought a proper office chair - the other half of the delivery. I've positioned it in front of my bedroom window with a (limited) view of Kigali and my papaya tree. I think of it as the glowing window of inspiration.

Old habits die hard. I had a little ritual tonight to imbue it with inspiration. Although I can't type fast with one hand, I feel I should attempt to make some progress. I'll begin with some editing, which only requires me to scowl at the screen, muttering to myself. 

Consider this writing desk activated!

Confusion Girl

Girl With Bounce

WARNING: This is another post with pictures of a fried hand.

Just had a lovely meal out with Jo & Zubes. Both a bit knackered - me with my hand and Jo with a bad cough. Decided to cheer ourselves up with pizza at the best-lit bar in town. I knew it as Ogopogo, but apparently it's Terra-something (Terra Nova?) nowadays. Whatever, it's pretty. 

Pizza Oven

On the hand front, progress is being made.

For the morbidly curious, this was my hand the day after the physio fucked up.

I wrote to the head of Rwanda's Physiotherapy Unit explaining what had happened and very politely asking for a refund towards the extra medical costs of fixing the damage. He never responded. It's a typical outcome to most things regarding money here - having the same problem regarding a fridge warranty and the manager of Nakumatt. 

Still, Nurse Moses is my miracle man. I will never forget him for as long as I live. He prompted a gushy Facebook post last week:

A massive 'You're utterly amazeballs' to all my nursing, medical and healing friends. Over the past five weeks I have been entirely indebted to an incredible man called Nurse Moses. He's seen me in extreme pain (three hours of skin-stripping surgery on an infected wound), we've laughed a lot despite sharing no common language (there's a splodge on the wall that looks like Che Guevara), and he's forgiven me for fucking up a month of his work by seeing a psycho physio on the side. He's managed to fix every mistake I've made and still manages a smile when he sees me. He is, quite simply, amazing. As are all of you who have the stomach, patience and dedication to enter such a profession. I don't think we ever realise just how wonderful you are until we need you.

Had a bit of a scare last session. Nobody told me that Flamazine, the cream used for burns, turns black when it oxidises. My hand was flapping in the breeze on the moto home, so when I looked at it, I almost passed out. Thought it was rotting or something, until I ran it under a tap!

Anyway, really good news: all of the dressing is scheduled to come off 7 p.m. Saturday. Would have been Friday, but y'know, it's the Wimbledon semi-finals. Tennis or hand - priorities, people.

Here's what it looked like today. We've had some complications with the wrist, it's been slow to heal and was showing signs of infection, so I agreed to Fucidine. This is another cream they use, which is an antibiotic. Unfortunately, I have a bit of a reaction to it. An hour or so after use, I can't keep my eyes open. It completely sends me to sleep and can make me a bit emotional. Think it also had something to do with a bout of conjunctivitis. I feel much better when we don't use it, but it's the only thing that gets the skin healing, so it's worth a bit of discomfort. 

The fingers are shiny because they're coated in shea butter, which I think is some sort of miracle ointment. A small amount of scarring is occurring, so it didn't quite prevent that, but I do think it's helping with colouration and skin repair. Moses reckons all of the red will return to normal over time.

Zuba very astutely asked 'How did you burn your fingers and wrist but not the middle of your hand?' 

I have no idea. My best guess, looking at it now, is that I landed on the side of my arm, then attempted to push myself up with my fingers. My fingers were in a really bad state, so I guess, with my weight behind them, they were pushed down into the hot embers. Or perhaps I landed on my fingers and went down onto my arm.

I cannot express my sheer level of amazement that, in the space of just six weeks, I have managed to regrow everything. I expected it to take three or four months, and to be horribly scarred. It's kind of funny now when I meet people who heard what happened - they're expecting a big ugly mess, and all I have to show them is a fairly normal looking hand. 

I have my own macabre fascination with the process. I certainly wouldn't recommend trying it yourself, but I suppose at least there is hope that if it does happen, and you're young and relatively healthy, it's not world-ending. Your body has the power to regenerate.

The new skin is really stiff, and the scars are still forming so we're yet to see how that turns out, but there are options for physio and dermatology, which Moses (who I trust implicitly) assures me will get everything back to normal.

He tells me to be patient, but I'm not very good at that, so I've done the next best thing - I bought super fast wifi to watch Wimbledon. That's two weeks of lying on the couch not attempting to touch anything. It rally is doing wonders for my recovery.

We have this super cool contraption called Alcatel OneTouch. It's a small box about the size of your palm. You plug it in at home like a router, and you can link up to ten devices (laptop, mobile, Kindle etc.) to it. Then you can unplug it, pop it in your bag, and take your wifi connection with you. Lasts for up to five hours before it needs charging. Unfortunately, it only comes in pink or orange, but the concept is very cool, and you can change your SIM to use a cheaper 3G provider, as 4G is stupid expensive so I'm just treating myself for the duration of the tournament.

So, despite the hand, life is pretty good right now. 

Having some minor confusion, in that my favourite priest is back in town. He called me when he landed, but I was really run down at the time - struggling with the physio incident and a bad cold. Didn't get to see him before he buggered off to Goma to check on their project. Then one of his trustees flew in from Italy, only his flight between Kigali and Goma was cancelled, so LB got in the car and drove all the way to Kigali to pick this guy up.

We went out for drinks, and the trustee jokingly said 'You know he didn't drive all this way to collect me.' *nudge, nudge, wink, wink*

Anyway, he's back in Goma now - they've both gone to check on the project. He says he'll be back at the weekend, but he's flying out Monday, and he's so Congolese when it comes to timing. 'The weekend' probably means ten-to-midnight on Sunday. 

I promised myself after my last crush, that I would never again sit in silence wondering whether to say anything. Life is too short, you never get that time back, and it's twice as painful if the answer you've been waiting for is 'no'. So, before he flies out this time, I intend to separate him from the pack (he's really sociable, knows a lot of people, never alone) and just come out with it. If I don't, it's going to be another four or five months before he's back in town and I get the opportunity again. 

Psycho Physio

So upset today. Been in floods of tears.

No, not the EU referendum, though that doesn't help.

Had my first physio session yesterday at Kigali University's College of Medical Sciences. I found them by contacting the head of the Rwandan Association of Physiotherapists.

They have a dedicated physio unit in town. As I showed in my Red Bananas post, I'm having trouble clenching my fist because the new skin is so tight. I went to see them to try to learn some exercises and to see whether they could do anything to help reduce the sensitivity.

Things started out great. Yesterday was wonderful. Came away almost able to make a fist and feeling as though we'd made real progress on the sensitivity issue.

Today did not go so well. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it was a disaster.

Same physio. Started out fine. He told me before that he would have to press hard so, when it became uncomfortable, I just assumed he knew what he was doing. We were talking about the EU referendum, so perhaps he was distracted. Then he went off on a spiel about how western countries allow homosexuality. He said "I don't know what your beliefs are, but..." at which point I did say "I'm bisexual." A friendly discussion ensued, but the pressure on my fingers seriously increased whilst we were talking. 

I honestly don't believe he intended to hurt me. I think he was just distracted. But by the time he finished I noticed a purple bulge against his palm. When I turned my hand over I realised he'd pressed so hard he'd split the new skin on my fingers. They looked like strawberries - big red blisters.

I was shocked. So shocked that I started to panic. One month on from the accident and my fingers were almost healed. To look down and see them bursting with puss again - I was frightened.

The physio ran to put ice on them, but it didn't make any difference. So, in tears (having just had my hand mangled whilst listening to my physio's personal homophobic outpourings), I walked up the road to my usual clinic.

They told me the physio should never have treated me because the skin is still too fragile. But he was a professional with six years' experience, working at a professional institution for physiotherapy, I really thought he knew what he was doing.

I was so happy to lose the bandages last week, but now I'm right back to where I was. They dressed my fingers well and told me it will be all right, but I was so upset - mostly thinking about what Nurse Moses will say on Sunday when he sees what's happened to an entire month of his work.

I'm also totally exhausted by the attitude of some medical staff. During the first physio session, the male physio tried to coerce me into inviting him to my house, acting offended when I said no. Then I had to listen to his uninvited opinions on LGBT people. Meanwhile, when I was enduring an hour of painful skin-stripping a couple of weeks back, the administrative manager of the clinic decided that, rather than listen to my music whilst undergoing the procedure without painkillers, now would be the perfect time to declare himself a Soldier of God and try to convert me.

"Now is not an appropriate time," I said, through gritted teeth.

"Now is the perfect time!"

"Now is not the time," I repeated, with such force he eventually left the room.

I went out of my way to make friends with him again before I left, but I seriously resent being made to deal with this crap when I'm sick.

Rwanda desperately needs an ethics policy for medical staff:

1. Do not solicit female patients
2. Do not offer your opinions on anything that may offend your patient or cause them stress 
3. Do not talk about religion unless a patient wants to, and under NO circumstances try to convert them to your religion

Just really simple stuff.

They still charged me. Cost FRW 5,000 for the physio session, then 26,000 to undo the damage at the polyclinic. Safe to say I will not be returning.

After physio, I was supposed to meet up with Jo and Zuba for lunch, but when I called to say I'd be late, and explained what happened, she came to the polyclinic to collect me. I was so glad to see them.

She took me for ice-cream in Kibagabaga, then Pizza at Pili Pili, which is a gorgeous restaurant with a pool and an amazing view.

Even had a Rolls Royce parked in the drive!

About Those Voters Who Couldn't...

I rarely get political on this blog. In fact, the last time was the Scottish referendum, so I suppose I only get political when there's a referendum...

If you're outside the UK, or inside it but bored to the back teeth of the Brexit/Bremain debate, John Oliver gives an entertaining overview above.

If you have been following the debate and would prefer a gritty review spat out in a tone that matches your gut-burning desire to punch someone in the face, watch Jonathan Pie below.

Either way, take five minutes to peruse #dogsatpollingstations, a very British response to the stress of pretending we know what the fuck we're doing when we clearly don't.

I'm currently fairly pissed off.

Months ago, I started the process to register as an overseas voter. 

Because I thought I'd completed this process, I didn't go to my local embassy's open day for voter registration.

I then had a panic when I looked again at the letter I assumed was an acknowledgement of my right to vote overseas, only to realise it was yet another form to sign and return, and the deadline had passed!

So, I wrote off being a voter.

Then I received an e-mail telling me the deadline had been extended and I still had time.

To be extra, extra sure of being able to vote, I not only scanned the form back to my district council, I even sent a copy home to the UK with a friend who posted it from Bristol Airport.

I received another e-mail congratulating me on being registered as an overseas voter and telling me I'd receive a postal vote...

...which I didn't.

Nothing.

Nadda.

When I e-mailed, I was told this was 'always a risk' with postal votes.

Really? Nobody told me this. Absolutely nothing on any of the literature I signed said: Yeah, good luck with this, you probably won't receive your ballot paper anyway.

I'm finding it hard to comprehend, in the twenty-first century, why we don't have an online voting system? Anyone who's ever had to use Government Gateway login to file self assessment or renew their road tax can attest to its level of security. It's so secure, even you can't log into your own account. 

I can review my pension, set up a child trust fund, even register a charity online, yet I can't tick a sodding box?

This isn't about people who don't register. This is about people who go out of their way to try to vote, and still can't. I've since heard from a lot of people whose postal vote never arrived. 

If you feel this is unfair, please take a moment to sign this petition to introduce online voting options.

Not that my vote counts, but I am for Bremain. 

It may seem a little odd that I'd vote independence for Scotland, but unity for Europe. 

Mostly it's a human rights angle for me. Scotland's record on human rights (no privatisation of water, you can't intentionally make someone homeless etc.) is better than England's, and that level of socialism would probably flourish outside the burning sun of England's rampant capitalism. I'd happily apply for Scottish citizenship.

For a similar reason, the anger and awfulness that's come to the surface during this campaign reinforces my belief that it would be dangerous for the UK to self-govern with absolutely no external mediation. Human rights cannot be self-governed effectively by any country. They always require external, objective mediation. That's the nature of human rights.

I have never been a huge fanatic for sovereignty or nationalism. I find it tends to be a distraction from more important things in life - like living.

As an expat and a globetrotter, I also have the standard concerns about what leaving the EU means for freedom of movement. I already have friends - a couple - who are forced to live in Spain because they are barred from the UK. The reason they are barred is because he, a UK citizen, had the audacity to marry an American citizen.

In a country that boasts of freedom, why should this matter?

Well, because they aren't rich.

If you don't earn a minimum of £18,600 per annum, who you marry is not up to you if you want to build a life in the UK. 33,000 people are already affected by this. Husbands and wives separated, parents separated from children.

How many might this apply to once we leave? Brits who married EU residents. 

And, as John Oliver pointed out, even if we leave the EU, we're still going to have to abide by its laws if we want to trade with them. 

That's just my reasoning. And, luckily for me, I really don't have to deal with the aftermath. At least, not for a little while longer. Every time I start to feel depressed about British politics, I look out the window at the sunshine and thank my lucky stars I live in a beautiful country 4,000 miles away.

My friend ‏@tattooed_mummy made a really good post, worth a read:  I want my country back.

Instead of talking about who gets to come to the UK, who's in, who's allowed, I reckon everyone should get out of the UK. Looks like it's about to implode. A bit of distance offers a different perspective on things. There are so many lovely places to live in the world. I don't know if it's the weather, our Neanderthal genes, or just that we hate our jobs, but for a country that has so very much, we're in danger of doing very little with it. We really are not the be-all and end-all of anything but our own adventures. Whether we're in the EU or not, we'll remain as divided as we are every time a referendum widens the fissures. There has never been a golden era of unity, any historical fiction author could tell you that. All we have is a golden opportunity to make life interesting, enjoyable and heartfelt. So we'd better get on with it, because time is running out. Every second of every minute of every day. 

Let's face it, if #Operationcroissant couldn't win us over with crumbly, buttery goodness, we're dead inside.

UPDATE 

Red Bananas

(Warning: post contains icky photos of a bruised hand.)

Just had a really lovely lunch today with my friend Bhavin. We haven't seen each other in almost eight years! He's been living in Kindu, DRC. I wanted to go visit him last year but didn't make it. He's just been to visit family in India and stopped off in Kigali en route home. 

We had a lovely meal at Zen, then ice-cream at the MTN Centre. So good to see him again. Really lifted my spirits after a difficult week.

Continuing the finger fiasco, there's some good news and some could-be-better news. 

The good news is that Nurse Moses has performed a complete miracle. Today is 21 June, which marks one month since I put my had in a bonfire (it was a really fun night apart from that). 

It's been one week since my first round of bandages came off. My fingers looked the colour of the ripening red bananas I bought. Apparently, once upon a time, most bananas were red. Who knew?

Anyway, let me just remind you what my fingers used to look like (do NOT click that if you're eating). Looking at that, then looking at this, it's utterly incredible what the human body is capable of. I've watched a few burn recovery videos online, and this seems about normal for second degree injuries. Not quite Wolverine, but not far off.

My wrist is still wrapped up. It was recovering quicker than my fingers, but then I fucked up. Tried applying some organic lavender cream, but part of the skin was still weeping. When it touched, it pretty much burned a hole through it. Nurse Moses was not impressed, but he reckons it should be healed by the end of the week. 

I really am a shit patient - too impatient.

Had a mild panic when I put my hand in lukewarm water to wash it. I'd been told to use mild soap, and I'd infused the water with fresh rosemary and mint. But after I finished washing, parts of my hand turned deep purple. I was terrified I'd done something stupid again, but apparently this is completely normal. It's only around the joints, which were 'very badly burned'. After washing, I slather everything in shea butter which is anti-inflammatory, antibacterial and promotes new skin growth. Each day it's getting a little better. I'm so proud of my body for fixing itself.

It's been hard, though. A month with one hand. I shouldn't bitch. I have a friend who lost both his hands in an electrical accident. This is only one, and I've always known it's only temporary. But it has been exhausting nonetheless. Washing my hair and putting on a bra take twice as long. All the things I do to relax - play music, type stories, cook - have been either impossible or more stressful than stress-relieving.

One of the worst things is simply not being able to wash up (go on, try doing your dishes one-handed). So I have dirty plates piling up. I have to put them in a bucket and hire someone to come and clean once a week. After they're done I feel good again, but as they collect over the week it starts to depress me. I even have to ask someone to cut my nails for me. It's a lesson in humility.

Also had a reaction to the antibiotic cream the clinic were using. About half-an-hour after applying it, all I wanted to do was sleep or cry. Two rounds of conjunctivitis and a tiredness that could swallow worlds. Thankfully that's over now.

I have had people offering to come and cook for me, or take me shopping, but I'm dreadful at accepting help. I'd rather open a tin of beans with my teeth and lie down in the dark until things sort themselves out. I deal better with sickness when I don't have to interact with people. But I am grateful to know help is there if I really needed it.

Something else that was a little difficult the first time, is that Moses sometimes treats me in the same room where I said my final goodbye to Christiane. When I was in Karongi with Paul, I had a chance meeting with a woman at Bethany. We struck up a conversation. She told me she owned a hotel over the water. I asked if she had known Christiane. At which point she burst into tears, hugged me, and told me they had been neighbours and great friends. That set me off. So a couple of days later I find myself in Polyclinic staring at the bed where we'd shared a final meal of chicken and chips, and where I'd hugged her and said goodbye, fully expecting to see her again. It was the same bed I'd been lying in last August when I had malaria, and she'd sent me a final SMS of condolence.

I have to be honest, after a moment of tearful contemplation, I took a deep breath and drew strength from it. Fuck it, I thought, at last I'm not dead.

Compared to that, most things are fairly manageable.

However, I am feeling a little glum this week. Had a bit of a stress cry. When this first happened, I was very British about it: laughing with nurses and friends, quietly resigned to a few weeks' recovery.

What I wasn't in the least prepared for, was this:

I mean, seriously - what the fuck is that? I just grew my hand back, do I not get a break here?

Seems that was just the first stage. Next comes physiotherapy.

I managed to track down a physio who works near the clinic. Hopefully going to meet him on Thursday afternoon. Meanwhile, I'm stretching and clenching as much as possible throughout the day. 

Up with this I will not put.

At last I'm no longer a sign language interpreter.

Worse than the movement issue is the sensitivity. I can't touch anything. It's hard to explain. It's not exactly painful - it doesn't sting or throb. It's just highly uncomfortable. A horrible, prickly sensation accompanies even the lightest touch.

Tonight I've hooked a soft, extremely clean tea towel over the back of the sofa. I'm practising touching it gently. My theory is that if I continue to do this, my fingers will gradually desensitise. Typing and picking stuff up still feels like a long way off.